


INKED

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Background Relationships, Community: hp_nextgen_fest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Digital Art, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanart, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Harry Potter Next Generation, Hints of Harry/Scorpius, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Recreational Drug Use, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: After decades of soul searching, Draco has finally found peace as a renowned magical tattoo artist. His careful life is about to be upended, however, when he’s saddled with a rebellious and all-too-tempting apprentice.Age Disparity:Draco 48/ Albus 23





	INKED

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> I’ve always enjoyed this pairing and when I read your incredible prompt, I just had to fill it! I loved the entire premise—it was so much fun to write a naughty Albus!
> 
> Many thanks to tdcat for being such a kind and wonderful beta. She turned this around with lightning-speed, and made everything better in terms of SpaG, characterization and flow. I fiddled around with it a bit afterwards, so any remaining mistakes are definitely my own. Thanks also to the lovely mods for their endless patience when I couldn’t leave well enough alone! <3
> 
>  
> 
>  **Artwork** : Links to the artist’s tumblr account will be posted on AO3 after the reveal.

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys

Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys

One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more

And Puff, that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar

-excerpt, Muggle Children’s Song*

 

Albus Severus Potter was never one to shy away from a dare.

“For fuck's sake, Al, _take it off!”_

Al stared out through a curtain of dewy lashes, the room thundering with the sounds of drunken encouragement as he continued to strip. The hit of  _Bliss_  that Adrian had slipped him had already kicked in, transforming the burn of the Firewhiskey into an inferno and making him fly. He ran his hands down his sides, his back arching seductively as his muscles flexed, their lean lines sparkling prettily under the strobe lights from the glitter that dusted his skin.

He paused when the metal studs of his belt suddenly caught on the loops of his denims. His fingers closed down over the buckle as the floor shook, the bass pounding repeatedly through the soles of his feet as he gave the leather strap an impatient twist. It finally surrendered, its heavy weight landing on the ground next to his T-shirt and trainers with a resounding _clink._

He flipped Adrian the two-fingered salute, swivelling his hips and moving on to his zipper as the catcalls and whistles grew increasingly louder.

 _"Lower_ , Potter, you fucking Hufflepuff!”

Al steadied his breath, clambering onto a tabletop which had grown slick and cluttered. One of the glasses tilted, its lukewarm contents spilling over the edge and staining his jeans. Al kicked it aside, oblivious to the ensuing crash as he crooked a finger between his legs.

"Only if you'll do it for me,” he teased.

Camilla looked up at him with a slow, seductive smile. She inched her hand up Albus’ thigh, her expression turning positively filthy as she ran the tips of her nails along the line of his groin, the heel of her hand pressing down against the fattening shape of his rapidly hardening—

Al flicked his wrist.

“Whoopsie!” Camilla laughed. She squealed with delight as she sailed through the air, her pliant and eager frame landing neatly on the table beside him.

Al turned towards his ex, the rims of his irises disappearing as he drew her close. He mouthed the curve of her neck while his hands spanned her waist, slotting their bodies together. She let out a hiss as he rutted against her softness, the curves of her cheeks growing beautifully flushed.

 _"Christ,_ Potter," she groaned, grinding against the thick line of his erection as she squeezed him tight. "I’ve missed this so much. You’re so fucking _hot."_

A silky voice interrupted. “Either of you fancy a hand?”

Al lifted his head. “The more the merrier,” he replied brightly, ignoring Camilla’s displeased expression as he bent down to help Adrian up.

His fellow Slytherins made quick work of his jeans, leaving the mini-Saviour clad in only his trunks. Adrian groped his arse as Al tipped back his head and let loose to Adrian's greedy touch. The intensity of skin and slick combined with the illegal potations and pounding music was nearly _too_ much, and he closed his eyes as he drowned in the surfeit of perception and sound.

Camilla traced a wet and lazy circle around his ear with the tip of her tongue. “Let's give them a show, shall we love?”

Al's long lashes fluttered open, squinting as the flashing lights sparked unnatural colours in eyes that were already bloodshot and glazed. He looked out over the sea of faces: some disgusted, others slack-jawed, the remainder pinched with envy. A hand grabbed his calf while another pawed at his ankle—he pitched forward as the room suddenly swirled, his body barely grounded by the sensation of Camilla’s tits pressed up against his chest and Adrian's hand stroking his prick. Al felt off-centered, the disorientation only increasing once another reveller found his way onto the table.

It didn’t matter that Al was the best Seeker Hogwarts had seen since... well, his father. His reflexes were dulled, his right hand too slow as the table wavered under the additional weight. He aimed a wandless _Leviosa_ at the array of falling drinks but missed wildly as the charm hit the brightly-lit bar and its bottle-lined shelves.

“Al!” Camilla’s whinge pitched high above the din as she lost her footing, causing him to stumble. The subsequent explosion of glass was deafening as his concentration slipped and he let go of the spell.

 _Well, fuck me,_ Al thought. Several partygoers collapsed on top of him, and he let out a hysterical laugh.

There was the crack of _Apparition,_ followed by the clamour of voices amidst the rapidly scattering crowd. Even in the mayhem there was no mistaking the group who had swarmed the place, who added to the growing confusion with the sharp clicks of their leather boots, the flaring lights from their drawn wands, and their authoritative shouts.

 _Fuck._ He could feel the anger seeking him out from within the building’s walls; it was powerful and familiar, but loaded with something else. It was an emotion that had become more frequent as of late, and Al felt his resentment swell as his own brand of magic reared its head to rise up to greet it.

“Al.” The scarlet hue of a woolen robe fluttered ominously into Al's line of sight.

 _Ahh. Disappointment._ That’s _what it was._

He hated how such scrutiny never failed to make him feel second-rate. The damage that he'd incurred would be impossible to excuse, and was sure to make the headlines of tomorrow’s _Prophet._

Two pairs of eyes met—neither wavering, twin pools of a matching and brilliant green that pierced through the smoky haze.

“Welcome to the party, Dad.” 

“Will you be needing anything else, Master Draco?”

Draco took a look at the tray that was set before him. The boudoir table fairly groaned under its weight, laden with fresh fruit and juices, black bacon and duck eggs, Oxford sausages and mushrooms, and breads slathered with butter and honey. He never knew why the house elves felt the need to bring up enough food for a party of twelve, and with his forty-ninth birthday fast approaching, he needed to be even more conscious of his intake.

He raised a pale brow. “Thank you, Mimsy. I believe this is more than sufficient.” A slight frown tugged at the corner of his lips; if she persisted in preparing such extravagant meals, he would need to restock the Manor’s pantries at twice the usual rate.

Mimsy stared, her eyes as large as the serving dishes themselves. She began tugging at her ears frantically.

“If Master would forgive Mimsy… ” Draco rolled his eyes, which caused the elf to grab onto the armoire, screwing her face in determination as she reared back.

“Stop, Mimsy,” Draco commanded. “Just tell me what you were about to say.”

“Mimsy was just going to tell Master Draco that since Master Scorpius left there has been no one else to cook for. Mimsy thought that Master Draco would do well to have some company once in awhile. So that Mimsy could cook for them both.”

Draco gave her an amused expression. “As it turns out, Mimsy, I do have company here from time to time.” _Just no one worth asking to stay for breakfast._ “Speaking of which, my son will be visiting this morning. Please send him upstairs when he arrives.”

Mimsy’s face lit up at the news; it was no secret that Scorpius was a favourite amongst the elves.

“I will make sure to prepare Master Scorpius' special tea and currant scones,” she said delightedly.

“He would enjoy that very much. That’s all for now, Mimsy,” Draco said with a chuckle as the house elf Disapparated in a rush.

A copy of the _Prophet_ was laid casually to the side. Draco picked it up and unfolded it with a snap. The headline on the front page caused him to gape and he set down his fork, his breakfast untouched.

 

> **_Potter Scion Celebrates Twenty-Third Birthday with Another Arrest_**

> _Albus Severus Potter celebrated his birthday in style last night at_ Yantra, _the newest offering from club impresario Zoe Accrington. Several witnesses report that the Saviour’s youngest son was acting in a most decidedly_ unsavoury _manner, cavorting with his friends in a blatant display of various inappropriate behaviours._
> 
> _“Disgusting,” sniffed one clubgoer. “I mean there’s sexy dancing, and then there’s just plain sex.”_
> 
> _“Absolute callous disregard for the safety of others,” one of the Aurors who was at the scene confided under the condition of anonymity. “Casting dangerous spells in a packed club while under the influence.” Indeed, Albus Severus was brought up on charges of endangering the public, public intoxication, and public indecency._
> 
> _Also taken into custody were Camilla Parkinson-Nott and Adrian Zabini. The three were released into the care of their families, with bail set for Potter at one thousand Galleons. One can only imagine what’s next for the wayward son, or how his actions will continue to reflect on his famous father._

 

Draco stared at the photo which accompanied the article. Albus Potter was naked from the waist up, his lithe body shimmying in a pair of skintight jeans that hugged his arse so closely that the generous outline of his cock was visible for all to see. His hair was longer than his father's—just as messy, but on the insouciant boy it framed his youthful beauty in a damningly attractive way. There was no hesitation in the young Potter’s movements either; he embraced his leanness and his sexuality, his mouth parted in a soft _“O,”_ his intense eyes daring yet beckoning as he undulated with a come-hither grace.

“Father?”

Draco looked up from the paper guiltily and adjusted his robes.

“Scorpius. Please tell me you weren’t involved in this.” He waved the paper; Albus continued to grind, staring out from the photograph with his swollen lips set in an obscene pout. “It’s a disgrace. Half of the people involved were in Slytherin House. In my day… ”

Draco shook his head, suddenly feeling old. He wasn’t a stranger to the clubs and still made it a point to seek the company of other men from time to time, yet even when he sought such hedonistic pleasures it was never with such a self-destructive edge as this, with potions and drink further robbing one of control.

Scorpius' mouth dropped, and Draco felt a frisson of worry. He hadn’t seen Scorpius' name in the paper, but he and Al were friends...

“Scorpius.”

“No, Father,” Scorpius answered hastily, the grey in his eyes deepening towards the slate hue they adopted whenever he was troubled. “I pulled a double shift so I missed out on all the excitement. But the reason I came over was to speak to you about Al.”

Draco gave him a relieved smile. “And here I thought it was because you were doing your filial duty.”

Scorpius walked over and placed a kiss on Draco’s cheek. “It’s never a duty. I would have come, regardless. And my love for you won’t change based on your response to what I’m about to ask.”

Draco watched intently as Scorpius bit his lip, a faint blush suffusing his handsome face. “I spoke with Al this morning. Well, Harry, more accurately, since Al’s attentions were focused on procuring a second hangover draught. Al’s lost, Father. Even with all of Harry’s influence, this is sort of Al’s last chance. He’s well past a simple slap on the wrist... past public apologies, past community service.”

Draco frowned. “Potter has plenty of money. How could I possibly help, other than that?”

Scorpius hesitated, then sighed as the words came out in a rush.

“Al’s so smart and so talented, Father. He befriended me when others shied away. Maybe it's because of his family, but he was the first person to look past rumours and stereotypes, to give others a chance.

“But now… Al’s not just cynical, it’s like he’s trying to self-destruct. Most of our friends enable his behaviour because they're enamoured with his celebrity and wealth. His own family’s words carry little weight; if anything, they spur him to do the opposite. Harry’s at his wit’s end.”

 _Harry,_ was it? Scorpius had grown close to the entire Potter clan due to his friendship with Albus over the years, but his level of hero-worship for the patriarch had taken on an entirely new meaning once Scorpius was accepted into the Auror program and then assigned to the Head Auror’s elite team.

“That still doesn’t answer my question. How could I possibly help?”

“Well, I think Al’s always liked you. Not in that way,” Scorpius added, “but I think he respects you for becoming more than your name. It would be good for him to have a mentor outside of his family, someone he could look up to and trust. I was hoping you could take him on for an apprenticeship of sorts.”

Draco looked at his son thoughtfully. “Is ‘apprenticeship’ the new term for ‘keep a close eye on the brat so he stays out of trouble?’”

Scorpius laughed. “Perhaps.”

Draco studied his son, his eyes gleaming with pride. Despite his somewhat messy divorce—Astoria had known of Draco’s proclivities and had been willing to look the other way, but when an indiscrete lover outed Draco to the _Prophet_ and humiliated the family in the process, the scandal had caused their relationship to take an ugly turn—there was no question that he and Astoria had raised an amazing son. Scorpius always looked for the best in people. He had joined the Aurors not as attempt to bolster the family name, but from of a true desire to help others.

And when it came to his friends, his loyalty was reciprocated ten-fold. The idea that Scorpius was so well-liked and successful while Potter’s youngest son was such a wreck should have filled Draco with a petty satisfaction, but instead it made him curious as to what could have happened. He remembered the Albus of old, the child who used to visit the Manor during the school hols. The boy was polite but shy, smart and sensitive, never once doing anything untoward.

Well, unless one counted his unfortunate resemblance to the elder Potter.

Draco wondered what changed in the last several years to have set Albus on such a ruinous path. He had failed the Auror entrance exam despite having supposedly brilliant N.E.W.T.S., besting even Scorpius' stellar scores. His post-Hogwarts career was famed more for the gossip and headlines it generated than its success: there was a brief stint at Weasley and Weasley’s (fired after handing out one-too-many samples of _Channel Your Inner Omega_ lube to some ecstatic—but not quite legal—sixth year students); an even shorter stint at Fortescue’s (for turning a batch of Chocolate Brownie ice cream into Chocolate Brownie Surprise by mixing in a generous dose of mallowsweet); and the one-day disaster at Quality Quidditch Supplies (where he was found on his lunchbreak in the backroom with Zabini Jr, doing unspeakable things to a broom).

“Please, Father; Al’s family has refused to pull any more strings to hush things up. You’re his last hope.”

Draco looked down at the photo of Albus Potter’s smirking face.

His impudent, saucy, troublemaking, much-too-youthful, and impossibly gorgeous face.

“Tell Albus to be at _The Paper Chase_ Monday morning at ten sharp.” Draco sighed as Scorpius rewarded him a blinding grin. He hoped that his rare show of altruism wasn’t a rabbit hole that he was rapidly heading down, with Albus Severus leading the charge.

 

**~O~**

It was like looking into those famous eyes, but at the same time, not. Eyes that were just as fiery and intense, but which were filled with a brazen impudence that their progenitors never exuded.

“Put that out,” Draco ordered. It was not yet noon, but the sun was already casting long shadows between the buildings of Diagon Alley. “There’s no smoking in the shop.”

Albus peered at Draco from beneath a fringe of black hair, taking one last drag of his fag before removing it from his lips. The red glow of its tip disappeared in a trail of smoke between his thumb and forefinger as he Vanished the stick with a wave of his wrist.

“A neat parlour trick,” Draco commented drily. “If only you’d spend that much time perfecting your _Tempus._ Do you realise what time it is, Mr Potter?”

Albus lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “I’m guessing it’s not ten sharp.”

 _Insolent whelp._ Draco counted to ten, vacillating between the urge to throttle Albus, Scorpius, or himself for having sired such a soft-hearted but misguided heir.

“It’s half past ten,” Draco said, ice dripping from his clipped tones despite the morning heat. He hadn't grown up immersed in the hauteur of both the Malfoy and the Black lines for nothing. “This is your first and only warning: I don't give a flying fuck whose son or friend you are, I will not tolerate tardiness, untidiness, or insubordination. If I’ve discovered that you’ve violated any of these conditions, that pretty arse of yours will be out the door faster than a herd of thestrals.”

For all of Albus' obstinance, the details of his face—so pliant and soft, with lips lush and perpetually wet, graced with eyes so large and framed by lashes so long they appeared nearly childlike seated next to those chiseled cheeks—made him an easy read. Draco watched as the middle Potter child fought back a retort, his youthful bravado eventually conceding to common sense. Albus let out an audible sigh and slouched against the wall, the droop of his shoulders making him look uncharacteristically vulnerable and defeated.

Draco found himself softening at the unhappy scene. “I am your boss, Albus, not your babysitter. I’d prefer if you found this to be a rewarding experience. If you demonstrate an interest and show me the proper respect, I promise to reciprocate in kind.”

Somewhere in the distance, a cart lumbered over the cobblestone street. Albus lifted his eyes; Draco felt himself growing uncomfortable under their scrutiny before that piercing gaze shuttered.

He dragged the rubber tips of his trainers against the pavement. “Nothing’s interested me in a long time, Mr Malfoy.”

“Then why are you here?”

Albus nudged the front of his runners between the stones’ sandy grooves; Draco grit his teeth as the toebox grew progressively scuffed. “I was told to be here,” Albus finally said, glancing away.

“I see. And you’ve always been so good at doing what you were told,” Draco countered.

Those green eyes flared with irritation. “Fine. I need this job, okay? My parents cut me off.” Albus jut out his chin, the line of it even more defined because of the mulish angle. “Tough love, my arse,” he snorted. “You try having a life at twenty-three without a Knut to your name.”

Despite Albus' stroppy response, Draco wisely held his tongue. He remembered those lean years following the war, when the Ministry had cut off his access to the Malfoy vaults and he was left with nothing but his foolish pride. Although he eventually regained ownership of its contents, the lessons that he learned in the intervening period had proven to be more valuable several times over.

“Then I suggest you do what you can to make your experience here count,” he said cooly. “From what Scorpius has told me, you’ve few options left at your disposal. You know my rules, so any future success or failure in this venture is completely up to you.” He stepped aside and opened the door, his pale brow lifted in challenge.

The lights were off, as Draco preferred using natural light whenever possible to combat the incandescent heat. Albus squinted, his movements tentative as he adjusted to the dimness of the interior.

“Blimey!” Albus exclaimed. He craned his neck to get a better look at the gallery of images, his pink lips parting in wonder. “You did all of these?!”

“Yes.” Draco acknowledged, unable to stop the swell of pride upon seeing Albus' reaction. The eclectic collection of stencils and sketches and photographs had been carefully selected to highlight the painstaking detail of his work, as well as his ingenious use of shading and colour.

“They’re brilliant!” His eyes narrowed then widened as he stepped back. “How did you get some of the colours to look so intense?”

“Through a combination of technique and pigment selection. The basilisk, for example, was done using a technique called chromoluminarism. Instead of mixing the colours and injecting the result into the skin, the ink was placed in its pure form using individual dots, which forces the observer to mix the colours optically.”

“I saw a painting like that once. _Bathers at Asnieres;_ Dad took us to see it at the National Gallery. I remember because Jamie, Lils, and I kept trying to stare at all those dots up close.” Albus smiled at the recollection. “After ten minutes, it leaves you feeling a bit skunked.”

“Hmmm. And I’m sure your father was right up there with the three of you.” His lips quirked upwards when Albus said nothing to disabuse him of the notion. “You’re free to take a closer look if you’d like, but you’ll need to leave your wand with me.”

Albus scrunched his brow. “Is that really necessary?”

“I work with magical pigments. Certain spells can have a negative effect on not only the ink’s colour and saturation, but also the outcome of the tattoo. Levitation, summoning, and locking charms are safe. You'll need to check with me for anything else.”

“That doesn’t seem too difficult,” Albus groused. “I’m not such a plonker that I can’t be arsed to remember three basic spells.”

“This has nothing to do with your competency or your skills. At your age and with your parentage, magic is innate—as natural to you as breathing.” He pointed to a small phial of black ink that was locked away in a glass-fronted cabinet. “That pigment is one of the rarest ones available; it contains the tears of a Lethifold, takes months to brew, and costs nearly five hundred Galleons per drachm. What would you do if it were to tip over? Would you cast a spell in your panic? Should it spill, would you think to get down on your knees and clean the residue using only your hands?”

Albus flashed Draco with a wolfish expression. “Few things would prevent me from getting down on my hands and knees, if properly motivated. Although I do see your point.” He removed his wand from his back pocket and kissed the tip. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he sighed as he handed it to Draco.

Draco snorted. Albus was hardly subtle, but there was no denying his beauty, or the overt sensuality associated with the sight of the length of acacia pressing against his generous mouth. Draco placed the wand in a drawer and stepped aside, allowing Albus to explore the surroundings at his own pace.

Albus took his time, admiring several examples of runic inscriptions and calligraphic script before stopping in front of the section devoted to magical creatures. He lingered over several in particular: a powerful hippogriff painted in the Irezumi tradition; a majestic phoenix with the exaggerated colours of the illustrative school; and a lumbering boarhound done using a stippling technique. He startled visibly upon seeing an incomplete rendering of an Antipodean Opaleye that sat atop the drawing table.

Draco cleared his throat. He moved behind Albus, feeling suddenly protective of that particular piece.

“Why aren’t any of the tattoos moving?” Albus asked, his eyes still trained on the dragon.

“Having a magical tattoo is an intensely personal experience. The client’s choice of design is already incredibly telling, but the animation is a unique combination of the subject matter, the pigments, and magic. The way in which a tattoo comes alive is never the same twice; it is a product of the people, the emotions, and the environment in that specific moment. I didn’t feel it was my place to expose such intimacy to the general public, so I chose to take the pictures with the use of Muggle photographic equipment.”

Albus turned, a genuine curiosity washing over his face. “Have you ever failed to have a tattoo animate?”

“I’ve never had one fail to animate. But fail to animate optimally, yes, especially when I was first starting out. I’ve since learned to be extremely selective in my clients. I’ll only take on those who feel a kinship with my artistry, and who are committed to my entire process.”

Albus made a moue. “Isn’t that a bit...I don’t know, elitist?” he asked.

Draco arched a brow. “This has nothing to do with elitism. I’ve tattooed Muggle-borns and turned down the requests of children of my closest friends. It would be disingenuous of me to take on a project that I knew would be substandard from the start, especially if there is another artist who may be more suitable for the job. There has to be an affinity in both our vision as well as our magic. Speaking of which, if you’re interested in helping me with tattoo design and application, you’ll have to undergo a magical compatibility test. It’s something I require of all my apprentices.”

“To make sure there’s no failure during the process.”

Draco nodded. “There’s a flipside as well. In the most incredible of circumstances, the melding of magical compatibilities can create an artistic synergy like no other. Theoretically, this can take place between an artist and their client, or even between two artists. There are stories of such beauty and perfection to result from the marriage of talents that it causes the tattoos to come to life without the use of any charms.”

Albus let out a low whistle. “Have you seen this happen?”

“No. I’m not sure if it’s fanciful supposition or the truth, but the last recorded case was reportedly over two centuries ago. It’s something to strive for; as to whether such a bond truly exists, I liken it to finding the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Fair odds,” Albus shot back with a mischievous grin. Draco was taken aback by the change in Albus' humour, and marvelled at how beautifully it transformed his face. “So when do I take the test?”

Draco let out a laugh. “You’ll have to demonstrate the proper interest and respect, for starters. Remember, I need to know that you're committed to the entire process.” He handed Albus a broom and a bin. “A clean space lends itself to the purity of mind and spirit,” he smirked.

Albus let out a groan, but when Draco looked closely, the corners of Albus' mouth had twitched into a smile. Draco took the sketch of the Antipodean dragon and placed it in the drawer as he reviewed his appointments for the day. With both men preoccupied, neither noticed the moment when the dragon began to shimmer and move.

Albus sprayed the station and began wiping it down, sweeping over the chair’s dragonhide covering with a soft cloth. He checked the _Impervious_ charm for any weak spots before standing, satisfied that everything had met Draco’s exacting standards.

There was a surprising amount of physical work to the job, and the hours he put in every day had grown progressively longer. The ache in his back caused him to wince; he arched and stretched, the muscles in his arms rippling as he let out a soft groan.

Draco passed by with a collection of needles and tubes for the autoclave. His eyes flicked down, coming to rest on Albus' jeans, which caused his lips to thin into a stony expression.

Albus turned around to study his backside and frowned; granted, they were a bit tight, but these were his best denims. He finished cleaning the table, then walked over to Draco’s side, watching as Draco removed the instruments from the enzymatic soak.

“Put on a pair of gloves and prepare the autoclave bags,” Draco said curtly. The muscles of his forearm flexed as he fished out another instrument from the heated solution. His shirtsleeves were rolled past his elbow—the cuffs elegant and the tailoring bespoke, the expensive lines at odds with the manual labour.

“Why did you become a tattoo artist?” Albus asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Draco gave Albus a sideways glance. “Art history and painting were an important part of my upbringing. I discovered that I had a penchant for it.” He motioned for Albus to open a bag.

Albus felt the weight of the tubing slide in, then hit the bottom. He pinched the top and sealed it closed. “I mean… you could be content to sit on your Galleons,” he said with a bluntness that only came with the brashness of youth. “You could draw in your free time.” It was a well-known fact that the Malfoys were loaded; besides the Manor, Albus knew that Scorpius spent time in the family’s London and New York flats, not to mention their vacation villas in Positano and the outskirts of Paris.

The water sloshed in the basin then stilled. “I could have,” Draco said evenly, as the water resumed its gentle lapping sounds. “But life has taught me that things such as money and fame, and even the import of one’s name, are often fleeting. By consequence, they are poor indicators of self-worth. You must ask yourself: if these things were to disappear, what do you have left?” He held out two needle bars to Albus, which Albus bagged as well. “Would you pass me the tray?”

Albus looked down at the packets in his hands. “Is it okay to cast an _Accio?”_

“Yes. But your wand is not somewhere convenient.” Draco made a motion towards the end of the long counter where their wands lay, safely apart from all the chemical solutions.

“It’s fine, I don’t need it.” Albus gave a gentle wave of his fingers. The conversation stilled as the tray lifted into the air and glided across the room, eventually coming to a rest in front of them.

Albus felt the weight of Draco’s stare during the intolerable silence as a flush creeped up his neck. He cleared his throat, keeping his head forward as he busied himself by loading the sanitised equipment onto the tray.

“That trick with the cigarette on your first day,” Draco breathed, his voice dropping to a husky tenor. “That wasn't just a sleight of hand?”

“No.” Albus grimaced; it was inevitable, the reactions he received to such displays of power. It was something he generally used only in the company of his family and friends, but he had felt so comfortable with Draco, he acted before giving it adequate thought.

“Your father—he was the only other person I knew who could perform a wandless and wordless spell so effortlessly.”

Albus turned to him, his eyes pained. “That’s why I never use it as often as I could. It’s bad enough that I look like him; when my skill with wandless magic really took hold at fourteen, everyone said I was the second incarnation of Harry Potter.”

Draco looked at Albus curiously. “From a father whose own son bears an uncanny resemblance to himself... is that such a bad thing?”

Albus slid the tray into the autoclave and closed the door with a resounding bang. “It is when you’re expected to live up to the ideal of the _Saviour of the Wizarding World._ Everyone expects me to follow in his footsteps,” he spat. “Even after I sorted into Slytherin. Even after I excelled in Potions.”

Draco laughed. “Actually, your father did quite well in Potions. During his sixth year, at any rate.” He peered at Albus intently. “Is that why you’ve been bollocking up everything you’ve been handed?”

Albus looked up, his face heating in embarrassment. “Well, I figured out a way for people to notice me for me, right?”

Draco took off his gloves and threw them in the bin. He placed a gentle hand on Albus' shoulder.

“But is that truly who you are? Or are you still influenced by the idea of who others think you should be? Tell me something you enjoy doing, just for yourself.”

“I love flying; I love Quidditch,” Albus confessed, faintly embarrassed. “When I was at Hogwarts, I was Slytherin's Seeker.”

Draco’s eyes roamed appreciatively over Albus' shoulders and chest. “I remember. You were absolutely incredible when you flew. You were a big reason why Slytherin won the Cup three years in a row.”

Albus sighed. “I haven’t played since I graduated. I love my family, but I was so bloody tired of the comparisons. I didn’t want to become an Auror, like Dad. I gave up Quidditch, so people wouldn’t think I was following Jamie or my mum. I didn’t want to become a curse-breaker, like Uncle Bill, or go into business with Uncle George and Uncle Ron—”

“If you’re going to throw every Weasley into the mix, you won’t have any choices left,” Draco said, amusement in his tone.

Albus huffed out a soft laugh. “Now that I’ve said it out loud, I guess it is a bit like cutting off your nose to spite your face,” he admitted, peering at Draco from underneath his fringe.

Draco shuddered in mock horror. “No discussions about Voldemort in here, please.”

Albus laughed again, the sound of it bringing a spot of colour to Draco’s cheeks.

“Thanks for giving me this chance, Mr Malfoy. I’d burned so many bridges in the last several years, I think I was in danger of drowning.”

“You’re welcome, Albus.” There was a long silence; Albus fidgeted, but part of him knew that Draco needed this time, as if he were working to collect his thoughts.

“Why do you think I chose the name ‘The Paper Chase?’ ” Draco finally asked.

“It is unusual,” Albus conceded. He bit his bottom lip, thinking of what he knew of Draco and his recent revelations. “I dunno; maybe it’s a play on the paper chase in Hares and Hounds? Like you’re on the hunt for something meaningful, in response to what’s been laid out for you by life?”

“A good answer. And one that’s not far from the truth,” Draco answered with a pleased expression. “But there’s another meaning as well, one which I’ve never shared with anyone else.” He waited a beat. “Are you familiar with _Puff the Magic Dragon?”_

Albus grinned. “The one who _‘frolicked in the autumn mist, in a land called Honah Lee?’_   Yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s a Muggle children’s song, right? About getting high on mallowsweet?”

Draco scoffed. “Theorized about and subsequently denied. Anyway, Puff was an ageless and timeless dragon, who befriended a young boy.”

“Jackie Paper,” Albus supplied.

Draco nodded. “The two embarked on a series of imaginary adventures. But time passed and Jackie grew up, leaving Puff sad and alone. Astoria used to sing it to Scorpius. I was fascinated with the lyrics; they were an apt metaphor for my life, post-war.”

The wistful expression on Draco’s face made Albus' chest ache. “So do you see yourself as the boy or the dragon?” he asked softly.

“Perhaps a bit of both.” Draco attempted a smile, but it came out uncompromisingly sad. “I was the boy in the sense that the illusions of my childhood were exposed and subsequently abandoned. But I was also the dragon, cast aside by the wizarding world and all of its magic. Although the result of my own actions, it was still a bitter pill to swallow.”

“Do you think it’s possible? To one day reconcile the two?”

Draco shook his head. “Not in my case. I’ve regained parts of it—your father’s words, the reparations, my business, and my son all played significant roles in easing me back into the magical world. But I don’t think it’s possible for anyone who’s suffered through the horrors of war to reclaim their innocence. Although it is too late for me, however, the same is not necessarily true for you.”

Draco held out his hand. Albus took it unerringly, although there was a question in his gaze.

“Side-Along, Potter,” Draco explained. “There’s a dragon you need to catch.”

 

**~O~**

Albus had been to the Manor before but it had been years since he had last visited and nearly just as many since he _flew._ He soared, revelling in the scent of the roses as he darted between the hedges of the Manor’s formal gardens. The orderly and symmetrical parterres eventually gave way to expansive meadows and rolling hills, the fertile earth carpeted with yellow cowslip and the batches of Nottingham catchfly that dotted the margins of the woodlands.

For all of Albus' youth and daring, he was astonished to discover that Draco had managed to keep up the pace; in his family, only James could match Albus in terms of pure speed. He circled around once, using the change in his position to admire Draco’s form. His typically lithe and elegant movements had morphed into something tight and lean and aggressive. His thighs were straining against the seams of a pair of tight-fitting jeans as they gripped the broom, the fronts of his boots hooked over the stirrups, the strands of his hair fluttering wildly in the breeze. Albus wondered how Draco would look hovering over him instead, those sharp cheeks flushed with colour and sweat as his hands pinned Albus' wrists, Draco's slim hips lifting as he prepared to—

Albus pulled up with a start. _Albus, you tosser,_ he chided himself. _I can’t believe you’re thinking about shagging your boss._

 _Even if he_ is _incredibly fit._

He was so caught up in his woolgathering that he barely registered Draco’s urgent shouts. He looked up, startling at the sight of an imposing oak rapidly approaching at high speed. Albus swerved sharply but was unable to avoid hitting the tree completely; his head grazed one of its massive branches, leaving him dazed. He wobbled a bit then steadied as he slowed his pace, dismounting as soon as he was able to reach a large clearing.

Draco jumped off his broom seconds later, hot on Albus' trail.

“Bloody Hell!” Draco exploded as his Nimbus became the unfortunate victim of his anger. “I’m supposed to be watching out for you, not getting you into a worse predicament!” He put his hand on Albus' face and examined his bruised and swollen cheek, his expression tightening as Albus hissed.

“Do I need to get you to St Mungo’s? Are you feeling spotty or...?”

 _“Mmmm,_ no. 'M good.” Albus sighed, leaning into Draco’s touch. Draco smelled delicious, an incredible mixture of ink and leather and spice.

“Albus. Open your eyes.” Albus cracked one open in irritation. He just wanted to lay there for a second against Draco’s hand. It felt good. So, so good...

“Keep them open, Albus. I’m going to examine you; if you can’t remain conscious, we’re Apparating back to London.”

He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to stay here—in the meadow, surrounded by the flowers and the evening sun, listening to the aristocratic notes of Draco’s voice as they washed over his skin. Albus forced his eyes to open and sat up straight, gasping at the wave of nausea that hit him as the sudden movement caused him to lose his bearings and sway.

He took several deep breaths, grateful when some of the queasiness subsided.

“Really, I’m fine,” he said, shooting Draco a rueful grin. “We’re supposed to be chasing my dragon, right? Crashing is practically a rite of passage in the Potter-Weasley household; my childhood was filled with bumps and scrapes.”

“Still. You’re on _my_ watch now.” Draco’s fingers, so skilled with a needle and brush, showed a surprising tenderness as they skimmed over the contours of Albus' face.

“Draco.” Albus stared at the Dark Mark that wavered in front of him. Its outline was muzzy yet immediately recognisable.

 _“Hmmm?”_ Draco hummed.

“Do you have a tattoo of your own?” Draco’s hand stilled. _Fuck._ “What I meant to say was… ” Albus groaned, his face turning a bright red. Perhaps a trip to St Mungo’s was in order after all, since his foot was now firmly inserted into his mouth.

Draco held up his hand. “I do. It was my gift to myself after I’d completed my apprenticeship. A hybrid of a Dacian Draco adorns my shoulder and back.” He didn’t elaborate any further as he leaned in to get a closer look at Albus' collarbone and his neck.

“But your Mark,” he rasped, trying to focus on anything but the sensual curve of Draco’s lips and the headiness of his scent. “You’re such an incredible artist; you could take those dark lines and untwist them into something less sinister. Fill their spaces with beauty; hide all the ugliness and pain. Why would you leave it untouched, for all the world to see?”

Draco raised a brow. “I see that the impact has had the effect of loosening your tongue.” Still, he did not look angry.

“I tried to remove it once, in the year following the war. Drank half a bottle of Ogden’s, then proceeded to take a knife to my flesh. I was so bladdered I hadn’t realised I had picked up an instrument that was previously cursed; the combination of its sharp blade and Dark Magic caused a pain that was so excruciating I thankfully passed out before I could do much damage.

“Several years later, after I started training, I thought again about ridding myself of the Mark. This time however, instead of disfiguring it, I wanted to transform it into a work of art. But after much consideration, that idea proved to be nearly as unpalatable.”

“How so?”

“I realised that no matter how much I disguised it, I couldn’t change the essence of what it was. No amount of ink could ever alter the terrible things I’d said and done in my past. And just like I can’t bury who I was with my pigments, Albus, the same goes for you. You can’t hide who you are, no matter how much you want to with all your potions and drinks and sex.”

“Draco… ” Albus said, his heart breaking.

Draco took his hand, waving away his pity. “I could only learn from my mistakes, and move on. It was not easy; before I discovered my calling, I’d lost myself to many of the same things as you. Now, however, I am no longer adrift. When I see my Mark, it reminds me of both sides of my life—the mistakes of my past, but also of how far I’ve come.”

His eyes were absolutely mesmerising. Albus found himself moving closer—so close he could see the specks of gold swimming amongst the blues and greys, feel the softness of Draco’s hair against his cheek and sense the way in which Draco’s gaze lingered on the fullness of his lower lip. Albus brought his hand higher, the pad of his thumb tracing slowly over the ugly, faded lines of the Mark as he leaned in, lips parting in a pleasured sigh as he finally tasted the forbidden sweetness of Draco’s mouth, the intoxicating warmth of his breath and the flickering promise of his tongue.

“Albus, no.”

Albus' eyes flew open at the brusque tone. Draco was staring at him, his pupils fattened with lust but also flashing with confusion and anger.

“No,” Draco repeated firmly, as if trying to convince himself. He wrapped his hand tightly around Albus' wrist. “We’re done here. It’s time for you to go home.”

 

**~O~**

“Right. So after our morning debriefing, your dad convinced McGonagall that a N.E.W.T. in Wanking and Rodgering is now required for all incoming recruits. She was completely on board with the idea; in fact, she loved it so much, she’s decided to teach the inaugural lesson herself. With live demonstrations, of course.”

“Hmmm?” Albus said absentmindedly, watching the bits of fruit float around in his glass. “That’s great, Scorp.”

“Earth to Al.” Scorpius waved his hand in front of Albus' face. _“Merlin,_ what’s with you tonight? Is my dad pushing you too hard? If he is, I can talk to him. Sometimes he doesn’t realise— “

“No,” Albus said hastily. “It’s nothing like that. I took up flying again today, after work. Feeling a bit knackered, that’s all.”

“You what?! That’s fantastic, Al! How’d it feel?”

“Well, I learned that when it comes to me versus a five hundred-year-old oak, the oak definitely wins.” He pointed to his cheek, which by this point had turned a pretty shade of yellow and purple.

“Ahh. And here I thought it was some form of retribution for breaking yet another witch’s heart.”

Albus sighed. “I haven’t been with anyone, witch or wizard, since that night at Yantra’s.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

Scorpius reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’ll find someone, Al. Whoever it is, they’ll be lucky to have you.”

Albus stifled a sardonic laugh. If his best mate only knew. He decided redirect the conversation to something less complicated.

“How ‘bout you, Scorp? Anyone catch your fancy?”

Scorpius blushed, the colour a lovely stain against his pale cheeks. “Might be,” he admitted, taking a sip of his lager. “It’s early on though, so we’ll see.”

 _“Oi!_ I see that my dad’s plebian tastes are rubbing off on you!” Albus teased, pointing to Scorpius' pint of Stella. “Thanks for keeping an eye on him, by the way. We were all kind of worried after the divorce, especially after mum remarried. It’d be easy for him to lose himself in his work, especially since he’s pants at relationships.”

Scorpius made a choking sound into his drink, his grey eyes watering. “You think he’d be?”

“He _hates_ dating. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’d love to find someone whom he could spend the rest of his life with. But it’s the whole _Harry Potter_ thing. I mean, he’s not only in our history books, they’ve got pop-ups of him for little kids. Can you imagine how difficult it would be to find someone who could see beyond the image? It’s like he’d have to find someone who already knew him on a different level. Like a close friend or something.”

“Yeah. Sometimes a seemingly inconsequential event can cause an entire relationship to turn,” Scorpius said cryptically as he trailed his finger back and forth along the sides of his glass, the water beading, then sliding off the tip.

Albus looked up sharply. He didn’t think Draco would have spoken to Scorpius about their kiss. At least not yet.

He strove for a nonchalant expression. “I guess your dad’s kind of in the same situation. How’d he handle everything, after your parents got divorced?”

Scorpius laughed. “Well, the way he handled his sexuality was the reason _why_ my parents got divorced. I mean, my father is as bent as I am. When he was finally honest with himself, it was like he was making up for lost time. Lots of clubs—some more private than others—but he always tried to protect me from any possible scandal.”

“So…he still goes out a lot?” Albus asked, wincing at the jealousy in his voice.

“Not like he used to. I guess that stuff gets stale, even for someone like my father. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time he introduced me to one of his inamoratos. It must have been over three years ago…” Scorpius shook his head. “Anyway. If he seems strict at work, don’t take it personally. He’s terrorised lots of apprentices over the years, but only because his work is his life. It’s not a bad thing, to be happy in one’s job. It’s just that it would be that much nicer if he also had a partner to share it with.”

“Here, here.” Albus raised his glass. “May both our dads find the happiness they deserve.”

“Now that’s something I’ll definitely drink to,” Scorpius said, clinking his glass.

Albus downed the remainder of his drink. The two friends sat in companionable silence afterwards, lost in their own thoughts.

_Fuck._ He had rid himself of the habit five years ago, but there were times when Draco just itched to have a cigarette. At this point, he would have done  _anything_ to relieve the gnawing ache in his chest, that growing sense of restlessness.

The boy was irritatingly handsome—all pretty lashes and chiseled cheeks, complete with a swollen mouth made for cocksucking. It was no coincidence that Draco had begun to frequent the Muggle clubs he had once abandoned—the ones packed with writhing bodies that danced in time to the throbbing music, or where men frotted in darkened corners before absconding for the privacy of the alleyways or the loos. It was here where he found himself searching for a willing partner...preferably one that sported dark hair, green eyes, and that smooth softness of youth.

Twinks, however, were a Sickle a dozen. None could match the beauty of Albus when he flew, with his bright laugh and joyous expression as his lissome body stretched out over his broom. His incredible face—so evocative, those incredible eyes filled with such obvious desire— _Salazar,_ it would be Draco's undoing to be on the receiving end of something so vulnerable and self-effacing.

The morning had been quiet, too much so. Scorpius was spending the weekend at their London flat, leaving Draco to wander the halls of the Manor with only the house-elves and the echoes of his feet for his company. When a morning run still left him feeling on tenterhooks he decided to Apparate to _The Paper Chase_ , hoping to channel his energies into something more productive.

He was surprised to find the wards down and the door unlocked. Years of being hexed in the aftermath of the war had left him with a lingering caution. He slid his wand out its holster, muscles tensed and eyes wary.

“Draco!” Albus was like a crup, barely able to contain his eagerness. “I didn’t know you were coming in this weekend!”

Draco stared, flummoxed. Albus was sitting at a workstation, hunched over several pieces of parchment and an array of coloured quills.

“I could say the same to you,” he drawled. He tucked his wand away, fiddling with the holster's strap to mask his overreaction. A shot of cyan and vermilion peeked out from under the stack of papers. It was a very good rendition of a Swedish Short-Snout... and definitely not one of Draco’s own.

The back of Draco's throat grew uncomfortably tight. “You came in to look over some sketches. Whose, may I ask?”

“Um, yeah. Those.” Albus blushed. “They’re mine," he confessed. "The house was a bit mad this morning; Lils stopped by, and Dad was making a fuss, trying to figure out what to pack for the weekend. I like coming in here when it’s quiet. It... it gets me inspired.”

“You drew these?” Draco asked, shocked.

“Yeah." Albus worried his lip as Draco picked up the drawings and began looking them over with a critical eye. “I’ve never taken art classes or anything of the sort. But I’ve always loved sketching things. I think my notebooks in school were filled with just as many pictures as there were notes.”

“These are impressive,” Draco admitted. The images may not have been technically perfect, but there was an intuitiveness to the drawings that could not be taught. “You've made some excellent colour choices, colours that work well not only on paper, but also on the skin. And the shapes of the beasts show great potential for movement.”

The colour on Albus' cheeks deepened from his obvious pleasure. “Can I show you my favourite?”

“Of course.” Draco handed him back the stack of papers, but Albus shook his head.

“It’s not one of those.” He withdrew something from the drawer. “It’s this.”

Draco opened the folder. The cover snapped to side as he let out a gasp, the knuckles of his hands turning white as he tried to hide their trembling.

“Albus—”

Albus' eyes grew large. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know it’s your design." The tips of his ears grew flushed. "It’s just that from the very first day I saw it, this Opaleye is all I've thought about.”

Draco let out a shaky breath. He drew his wand and cast a series of spells, locking down the windows, the door, and Floo. Albus felt the power of dark magic surrounding him, ancient and strong, as Draco turned his attention to strengthening the wards.

“Draco… ?” he asked, his voice wavering.

“Tattoos are intensely personal and symbolic,” Draco answered as he hung up his robe and took a step forward. “Yesterday, I told you that I have one of my own. It was a gift to myself—a gift of forgiveness and acceptance, and one that I’ve shown to only a very few.” He unbuttoned his shirt and lowered it as he turned, unveiling the large dragon that covered the entirety of his back.

“It’s a Dacian Draco,” he explained as Albus let out a gasp. “The Draco was the ensign of the Dacian troops, who mounted its hollowed head on a fabric tube as it was carried into battle. For me, this Draco represents those years of my life where I was a thoughtless receptacle for the ignorance of others, no better than a mere puppet.”

Albus stared at the tattoo. Its head was almost wolf-like, with its gaping maw and rows of jagged teeth. Its serpentine body was covered in scales, their black colour glittering with a purplish sheen. It moved, restive and impatient, its motion seething with tension, as if struggling to break free.

Albus reached out with something akin to reverence. Draco let out an involuntary shudder, the pulse in his jugular quickening under Albus' caress. As his fingers skimmed over the corded planes of Draco’s back the dragon hissed, it’s body lashing out as it fervently sought Albus’ touch.

“You gave him a body and wings,” Albus whispered. “But your designs are known for their colour. Why the a lack of it, then, for your own?”

Draco looked pointedly at his left arm. “Because of my Mark. I wanted to work in the spectrum closest to black; I needed to prove that an image done with little to no colour could be beautiful without it.”

“He seems so restless.” The dragon snorted, but appeared somewhat mollified as Albus trailed a finger soothingly along its side.

“That’s because he is.” Draco hesitated. “With regard to his likeness, I’m pleased with what I've done. But I’ve always felt as if there was something missing. That he remained somehow... unbalanced.

“I spent the next several years trying to figure out why. I discovered that in certain branches of mysticism, the constellation Draco was considered to have both a celestial and an ecliptic pole, located at its head and tail. Since the impetus for the design was the Dacian head, I thought that perhaps what it lacked was its counterpart.”

“An anchor for its tail,” Albus whispered.

Draco’s eyes darkened. “Yes. And given the blackness of the Dacian Draco, I looked for its opposite. I chose the Antipodean Opaleye because of the way the colours in its spectrum swung towards white. I’ve been working on that Opaleye for twelve years, Albus, and never once did I feel it was quite right. That is, until...” His voice trailed, unable to finish his thought.

Albus leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Draco, please. I know this Opaleye, I know that it’s… ” He lifted his head, his jaw squaring.

“Let me take the compatibility test.”

“Albus. This is not something to be taken lightly. It can be an intense experience, and is one that requires a significant amount of trust.”

“I can handle it.”

Draco smiled gently at Albus' confidence. “I'd prefer if you made that decision knowing all the risks. There are three portions to the compatibility test. The first is an _Obscuro._ By removing the sensation of sight, the spell will force you to direct your energies inward. _Specialis Revelio_ is the next to follow, which will reveal the essence of your magical core.”

“And the third?”

Draco hesitated. “Perhaps the most personal of them all," he said softly.  _"Legilimens,_ where your deepest secrets and desires will be bared for me to see. As you can see, the ritual is not only physically and mentally exhausting, but emotionally draining as well.”

A determined glint settled in Albus' eyes that reminded Draco uncomfortably of the senior Potter. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure?” Draco asked. His voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “What would you do if the ritual determines that our magical cores are ill-matched, or even worse, divisive? Would you be prepared to give up your job, to make way for another apprentice?"

“And what if the combination is beautiful and unique?” Albus challenged. “Will you acknowledge our connection?”

Albus sighed when Draco remained silent. “Whether I take the test or not, it doesn't change the reality of our situation _._ So yes, I’ll accept the results, no matter what happens. But before I do, I want you to know how much you've meant to me. You gave me a chance, Draco, even when I hadn’t done anything to earn your trust. When I started—" Albus grimaced. “God, I was such a fucking tosser.”

“Indeed,” Draco said, his lips twitching.

Albus huffed out a laugh. “But you made me believe in myself. Even if everything were to end today, it’s more than I could have ever thought.” He took a deep breath as his eyes flicked from Draco's eyes to his mouth. “Sod it,” he muttered, his cheeks reddening as he wound his fingers along the back of Draco’s neck and pulled him close.

Their lips brushed. The kiss was chaste and innocent, and not nearly enough.

“Albus… ” Draco's cheeks were pink as he pressed his fingertips along the outline of Albus' mouth.

A cocky grin crossed Albus' face as he gave Draco’s hand a squeeze. “I know."

 

There was a brief moment of panic when the light that seeped through his eyelids, brightly pink-veined and onion-skinned, disappeared altogether. Albus held onto the memory of Draco’s heated expression as the room began to spin. He slowed his breaths; it was only the effects of the _Obscuro,_ he reminded himself, as he willed his nervousness to recede.

He let himself drift as his core dissolved into a weightlessness that was followed by a burst of tranquility and joy. He was alight with its warmth as his magic gathered into a pulsatile thread, a steady thrumming that originated with each beat of his quickening heart.

The feeling intensified, spreading like Fiendfyre through his veins. Albus keened as he drowned beneath his magic's weight.

 _I'm here, Albus._  He heard Draco's call, calm and dulcet amidst the surrounding roar.

A silver coil appeared; its edges were frayed, but the plies remained resilient and strong. The thread of Albus' magic latched on and took hold, both essences entwining as the dual strands began to thicken and grow.

Albus let out a plaintive sob, its sound laden with the weight of his want.

There was an answering noise. The air around him cooled, growing fragrant as it filled with Draco's masculine scent. Albus sighed, his lips parting as he leaned into fingers that were now caressing the angles of his face.

One on his cheek. One near his eyelid. Two over his brow...

_Legilimens._

The memories came strong and fast. A happiness washed over him as he relived the joy of casting his first spell, which quickly morphed into exhilaration as he lifted up on his first flight. A contentment followed as he remembered all those summer holidays by the sea, replete with the taste of saltwater skin, ice lolly lips, and the languid heat of the sun. A familiarity and a sense of belonging came with recollections of the Slytherin dorms—where childhood pranks eventually made way for adolescent games, filled with first kisses, tentative hands, and the discovery of sex.

Albus could feel the heat flooding his face as the memories slowly shifted then wavered. Recent ones surfaced—desires which were no longer propelled by the blush of teenaged arousal, but by pure carnality and lust. Of nights fueled by drinks and potions as he became one with the pleasure-seeking crowd. The images flashed forward in an endless stream—snapshots of tits and cunts and cocks and arses in all their lurid glory. Faceless conquests—detached, impassive, and devoid of any sentiment or meaning.

A loneliness seeped over him as he felt Draco retreat, unmistakable anger, lust, and sadness filling his edges. Albus pressed forward, urging him back as he released a tidal wave of confessions: nights spent alone, hunched over a sketchbook, finally free from booze and clubbing; furtive glances cast under a fall of hair as he admired his mentor hard at work; the weight of his cock in his hand, as his thumb brushed slowly, then more urgently, against its smooth head; the star of Albus' fantasies, all pointy chin and sharp cheeks, his hair a platinum blond halo around his face as he bent down to capture Albus' lips in a kiss.

The energy in the room stilled then hummed as the lines between dreams and reality blurred. It was no longer what Albus remembered, but what he _wanted:_ him, on his knees, watching as the irises of Draco's eyes dissolved from silver to black. The brush of a beautiful pink cock against his cheek, its tip smearing a trail of slick against the skin as it nudged into the wetness of Albus' mouth. The stretch of his lips as he sucked it down, the feel of it thick and heavy on Albus' tongue. The cycling breaths, the hollowing of his cheeks, and the smack of saliva as he worked his way up and down the length of that glorious prick.

His honesty was met with an answering groan; Albus let out a cry as Draco opened the lines of Legilimency and bared his own desires in equal measure. He saw himself through Draco’s eyes—lean body taut, red lips swollen, green eyes wild. He watched as his hips writhed and his cock jerked, his need to suck and swallow insatiable even as he nearly choked. He felt Draco’s need—raw and intense, Draco's slim hips stuttering as he thrust repeatedly into the tightness of Albus' mouth.

Albus' cock was achingly hard, his balls pulled high and tight. Arousal overwhelmed him, the heat of it shooting along the base of his spine. He was so close to coming, it would take him only a couple strokes to get off, two, maybe three at the most—

 _“No.”_  Fantasy Draco pushed Albus down, pulling at his trousers as he took Albus' weeping cock swiftly into the heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, _oh fuck…”_ Albus whimpered, sobbing at the intensity. There was a twist in his gut, a pool of heat that escaped in a guttural cry, followed by buzzing whiteness as the room spun and everything turned to black.

 

 

The muted chatter outside the shop was almost unnaturally quiet. Albus' breathing slowed, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light as the _Obscuro_ lifted and the margins of his surroundings came slowly back into focus.

 _He needed…Fuck, a_ Scourgify _at least._ Al winced as he glanced at his come-stained denims.

A noise captured his attention. Albus looked up; Draco was kneeling by his side—hair dishevelled, shirt rumpled and eyes dazed. His pale fingers shook as he wove them through Albus' locks, carefully brushing the wayward strands off his face.

“Did I pass?” Albus aimed for a lopsided grin, although his voice was barely above a croak.

Draco didn’t say a word. His wicked lips curled into a smile even as his gaze softened into something tender as he leaned forward and devoured Albus' mouth.

 

**~O~**

Draco put the finishing touches on the last scale, his fingers framing the area beneath Albus' shoulder blade as it vibrated from the needle’s movement. The addition of the crushed foliole from a Silver-leafed Tree was an ingenious touch—it turned the pigment a lustrous, pearlescent white, which added an element of depth and motion whenever it caught the light.

"It's done." Draco said. He leaned over, the fall of his hair hiding his gaze as he wiped the tip of the needle with a clean towel. Despite the casualness of his tone, the set of his shoulders hinted at his nervousness as he waited for Albus' reaction.

Albus stood, making his way in front of a full length mirror. He slowly turned, his eyes widening as he drank in the sight of the gorgeous Opaleye which decorated his back.

He turned back towards Draco with an awestruck expression. “It’s perfect,” he breathed.

"Just like you." Draco walked over, examining the image with a practised eye. "If this heals as quickly as I believe it will, we should be able to perform the Activation charm later on tonight." He opened a small jar, scooping a sizeable amount of the liniment onto his fingertips and began smoothing the fragrant balm over Albus' skin.

The heat of Draco's touch mixed with the coolness of the paste, setting his nerves alight. Albus' eyes fluttered open, twin pools of green that swirled with the full force of his desire.

“Your eyes,” Draco murmured. He brushed his thumb along the swell of Albus' lower lip, leaving the imprint of an inky smudge. “They’re incredible. So amazingly expressive.”

Albus pulled back as a horrifying thought hit him like a Bludger.

“Draco; you and my father. Did the two of you ever—?”

Draco hesitated. He certainly had a type—dark-haired men with lean physiques, emerald eyes, and displays of magical prowess had always been his weakness. It was not difficult to extrapolate where his preferences may have originated from, or from whom. But while Harry’s magic was bold, brash and unapologetic, Albus' was like the finest wine—sweet and spicy, mysterious and hypnotic—no less potent, but with a subtlety that lingered.

“No,” Draco replied honestly. “Your father is undeniably a handsome man, but our relationship has always been a volatile one." He took Albus' hand and placed it over his wrist; Albus could feel Draco's pulse racing beneath his fingertips. "And although we've since developed a begrudging respect, your father has never made me feel like this.”

Albus moved in, groaning when he felt the length of Draco's erection rubbing against his own. “And what of your past?" he asked hoarsely. "I'm not…you don't see me as a second chance at your lost youth, do you?”

“Oh, Albus.” Draco's eyes unnervingly clear. “Don't you already know? You’re no one’s substitution. You’re uniquely brilliant and complex—the Opaleye to my Draco, the light to my dark, the ecliptic to my celestial pole. And though I may have lost my Jackie Paper, I've found something far, far better.”

Albus held his breath. “And what would that be?”

Draco’s fingers tickled the wisps of hair in the back of Albus neck. “After all these years, I've finally found that which I've been missing,” he confessed. “You’re my Honah Lee, Albus. My anchor. My home.”

A warmth spread through Albus’ chest. He stared at Draco, never breaking his gaze as Draco grasped Albus’ chin and pulled him close.

Albus moaned as Draco’s lips gave way, their tongues rasping against one another as their magical cores surged and the Opaleye began to writhe. The majestic dragon spread his wings, testing them briefly before taking flight. His spirit sang as he took to the skies, soaring alongside his Dacian mate—wild and triumphant, and gloriously free.

 

 

**~Fin~**

**Author's Note:**

>  *** Puff the Magic Dragon** [Lyrics:](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/121227/) Leonard Lipton, Peter Yarrow
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for viewing! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/116783.html).


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